But it was, admittedly, slightly terrifying.
“Hmm?” I look up, realizing I’ve missed whatever Juniper has been saying for the last ten seconds or so.
She stares at me, dark eyes narrowed as she scrutinizes my face like she thinks something might be off with me. “I said I’ll bring you dinner if you want. Since you usually eat late, anyway.”
She’s right about that, and I perk up, feeling a little better about things. “What are you bringing me?” I ask, shoving back from the table and swiping my phone from the surface.
“Whatever we end up having. But how hard is it to find chicken tenders and fries at a restaurant?” If anyone else were to remark on my limited palette and picky taste, I would’ve been upset. But then again, no one else knows.
Just Juniper, and she’s not about to tell anyone.
I shake my head and go to my room, prepared to flop over on my bed and read for the next hour or so. If I don’t skim through my photography book, I’ll look through my new Roman Studies text. We’ve been assigned a couple of plays, two of which I’ve already read, and the section we’re reading in our textbook is information I’ve looked at before.
Call me an overachiever, but I love reading about the things I study. Folklore is my favorite, to the point that, for my class that revolves around Eastern European folktales, I barely need to do any work this semester at all. I’ve read all of the stories already, and looked at some of the more popular discussions surrounding their meanings.
I’m sure if I was handed a pop quiz onBaba Yaga, which is what we’re studying at the moment, I would be able to put down more information than even our professor knows. It’s a shame I can’t make a career off of being a folklorist or researching folktales, but I’m sure that I’ll figure something out.
My phone lights up from the corner of my eye as I’m leafing through my photography book, and for a moment I’m able to ignore it until it lights up again.
This time I snag it, pulling the phone toward me and up to my face to read the message that’s been sent from another, unknown number.
Hope you don’t mind, but I got your number from our class roster.
The first message isn’t signed, and the second message clarifies.
This is Oliver, by the way. Can I call? I’m going to call.
My heart pounds in my throat as I read it, but before I can reply back to him, my phone vibrates, causing me to drop it from my fingers to my bed. I stare at it, breath stuck in my lungs and lips parted, before realizing that letting it go to voicemail after he knows I’ve read the messages is worse than not answering at all.
Damn it.
I drop the book and pick up the phone like it’s a hot potato, pressing it to my ear a second later with fingers that tremble. “Hello?” I ask, not knowing what exactly to say to him. “Oliver?”
“Yeah, hey.” He sounds as excited as the golden retriever puppy he brings to mind anytime I see or hear him. “I’m sorry if I interrupted something. Are you busy?”
I look down at my textbooks strewn across my bed. “No. Not really. Do you need me for something?”
“Yeah, umm. You know how I tried to lend you my book yesterday?” he asks, sounding a little ashamed of himself. I don’t answer. Instead my mind fixates on the image of him, getting naked, with the fucking book visible on his stream.
Oliver is Letsplayjay and I still have no idea how to tell him I know.
“Yeah,” I say finally, clearing my throat. “What’s wrong?”
“Did you take it with you, by chance?”he asks guiltily. “I just can’t find it. I’m sure I laid it somewhere or something, or it’s in a pile of stuff in my room. But I just wanted to call first to see if you took it home.”
“No,” I say, without thinking of my words. “It’s on your desk, isn’t it?”
Shit.Shit!
I don’t know why I’ve said it, and my heart races at the silence between us.
Shit. He’s going to know something’s up. I shouldn’t know that it’s there, that’s for sure. And I shouldn’t sound so certain.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant that’s where mine lives. Especially when I forgot it yesterday.” I force a soft, breathy laugh into my voice that sounds like I’m choking on air. “Maybe you’ve left it there?”
He still doesn’t respond for a few seconds, and when I’m ready to say something else to try to pull my foot out of my mouth, he suddenly announces, “I found it! Holy shit, Blair. You’re fucking psychic. It was right in front of my computer in some shit that fell yesterday.”
The excited tone never leaves his voice, and I smile at nothing. “I’m not psychic,” I promise, wondering when my heart will calm the fuck down. “It was just a hunch.”